How else to look at this fountainwith adjacent memorial statues?Drizzle’s left droplets finding pathsthrough embossed verdigris,such-and-such a name who fell.I’m not close enough to makemore of others’ particular lossin whichever battle or campaign.The stone platoon enduresinclement weather, helmeted,bayonets fixed at thickening air.

Remembrance Sunday every yearwe'd stand with such indifference:dragooned Boy Scouts in the breezewhich furled around a cenotaph.We’d put up with it, out of respect –although, eventually, out of respect,we’d be prone to goose bumps,laughter and knocked knees.

Here, though, are three historianscome to read blurred epitaphsfor losses in some foreign field.What could it be to them,in any event, who diedand who came home again?Their silence affects some careas, beneath a sun-split sky,they line up for a photographbefore those who, in memoriam there,did the best they could have done.